Resistance
by Bianca Castafarina
Summary: Tintin/Haddock SLASH. Captured by their arch-enemy Rastapopoulos, Tintin and Haddock get locked in a room that fills up with aphrodisiac gas. They try to resist its effects, but are not very successful.


**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

A short PWP fanfic - my participation in the Tintin kinkmeme on dreamwidth.

I loved the idea and could not resist writing it. I included Rastapopoulos, whom you most likely know, and his evil assistant Dr Krollspell from the album „Flight 714". Enjoy!

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><p>Tintin had surveyed the room and feared there was no way out.<p>

Similar to a bunker from World War Two with no windows, the small, square cell had bare brick walls, no furniture whatsoever, and a tiled floor. The door was heavy and had no visible locks nor any nails, screws or pieces sticking out that could be used as tools. The only adornments of this dreary, bleak prison cell were a small TV screen it its upper corner, and some strange gadget on the ceiling that looked like a tiny sprinkler.

Captain Haddock was pacing around the room, cursing under his breath. „That bucaneer! The devil shall fetch him and his gang of henchmen and Allan and all of 'em traitors...!"

He was, of course, referring to Rastapopoulos who'd gotten them into this mess. Tintin and Haddock were his captives, and Tintin had to admit he'd made a few mistakes. He had seriously underestimated Rastapopoulos after the arch-enemy had apparently proven himself a figure of fun during their last adventure. But he was not a joker. He was as dangerous, cruel and calculating as ever – and this time he'd actually captured Tintin and Haddock.

_What a stupid, stupid mistake_, Tintin scolded himself. How could he have underestimated Rastapopoulos? But he was confident enough to know that reprimanding oneself often had adverse effect and thus was useless. He had to focus on finding a way out.

Tintin did not even dare thinking what had become of Snowy. If there was anything that Rastapopoulos wanted from them, he would probably use Snowy as a hostage. But it was more likely that he was ready to kill them now.

The Captain was still muttering to a non-present Rastapopoulos. „You'll pay for this, you certified diplodocus! Son of a cucumber! Biological waste product! Coward! Miserable earthworm!"

„Captain, it's no use talking to yourself. Help me find a way out of here."

„We've searched everything! There is no way out! How in the name of one billion bilious barnacles-"

A single beep startled them both, and immediately Tintin looked to where it had come from: the small monitor in the corner. Rastapopoulos' face appeared on the small black and white screen, flickering and unsharp with noise. When he spoke, his voice was underlaid with a crackling rustle, but they still could understand him.

„Well, well, look at that!" Rastapopoulos smirked. „Already you've been in there for one hour, and still haven't managed to get out! I presumed you more crafty than that, boy reporter. Actually, I'm almost regretting it because you were the smartest, worthiest, most cunning adversary I ever had. But you've brought it upon yourself and your friend! How do they say... all is well that ends well, right?"

„Shut up, you deranged Orang-outan!" Haddock shouted.

The Rastapopoulos on the TV screen continued to talk. „Maybe you've already guessed how you're going to die. My assistant, Dr Krollspell is an expert for poisonous substances and you'll be the guinea pigs for his newest experiment."

Tintin felt the blood drain from his face. Dr Krollspell, the notorious Nazi concentration camp doctor, had disappeared in 1945, and after that there had been rumours that he was working for a Greek millionaire.

„But don't worry", Rastapopoulos said, „as I said, the doctor is an expert. The new substance he recently developed will work even more efficiently than the hydrocyanic acid the Nazis used in their death chambers disguised as shower rooms. See that little sprinkler on the ceiling? It will spread the gas evenly through the room. I strongly advise you not to remove the sprinkler – the gas is going to enter the room either way, and if you mess with the device the gas might spread around more slowly, delaying your death and making it unnecessarily painful."

Tintin's legs almost gave way as he heard the words. Cold fear was gripping his innards, and he fought panic. There must be a way out of this! There _must _be! How much time did they have? He stared at his hands and noticed they were shaking.

„And don't think you can still get out of this. Resistance is futile", Rastapopoulos said. „There is a small camera integrated in each wall so I can watch you as you die. Theoretically. In reality, I won't be watching – as a gentleman I'd hate to see you croak. Really, it is a shame. Why didn't you want to work for me, Tintin? We would've made a marvellous team!"

It was a strange thing: though having faced and barely escaped death many times, Tintin had never actually mentally prepared himself for the moment. Not a single time he'd asked himself when and if he'd accept and surrender to the inevitable end.

This was the reason he couldn't believe his ears now. Looking at Captain Haddock, it seemed that the older man was struggling with the same realization. But then the Captain walked towards Tintin and put a hand on the younger one's shoulder. „I don't..." he stammered, „I don't want... my last words to be 'blistering barnacles', so, um..."

Tintin opened his mouth to speak, but his brain was still fighting against what it did not want to accept. He did not manage to utter a word, and again Haddock spoke. „Y'know, lad... you're the best friend I ever had. There, I said it. Now that's some good last words, hm?" His face was eeriely calm.

„Bye-bye, boy reporter", the crackling voice of Rastapopoulos sounded through the TV. Then the monitor went off, and all they heard was a low, static buzzing from the speaker.

Then, silence.

„Captain", Tintin burst out, „it's not true! Rastapopoulos is faking! He can't- he can't... we can't-!"

Haddock said nothing. He just sat down, leaning against the wall.

Desperate with denial, Tintin ran around the room in a circle, perspirating with panic, hitting the walls and the doors with bare fists until his hands hurt. Then, panting with exhaustion, he let himself slide down onto the floor in a sitting position opposite the Captain.

No way out.

A peculiar odor entered his nostrils. This was it. Not. No, no, they were not going to die! His body, though, seemed to have a different opinion, and Tintin felt his muscles tense as if they were bracing themselves for a heavy impact. Breathing faster, he soon expected his lungs to give out first, and waited.

And waited. Yes, the strange smell was definitely there, and Tintin could not place it. It was musky, with strange, liquorice-like undertones... no, that was not the word. But it was definitely sweetish.

Time passed. He hardly dared to breathe, as though his body constantly feared that the next breath would be the last. His mind kept clinging to a shred of hope that seemed to grow with every minute.

Inhaling the odd-smelling gas, taking deeper and more daring breaths as the minutes went by, Tintin started to wonder why he was not getting weaker, not even tired, though the atmosphere seemed to be getting heavier. So it wasn't something that induced sleep or halluzinations - at least not yet.

He glanced at the Captain and noticed that Haddock was looking at him with the same curious, surprised gaze. „Thundering typhoons, shouldn't we be dead already?" His voice was low and raspy.

„I don't know", Tintin admitted, getting impatient, fidgeting around with his hands on his shirt collar.

„I think it's getting warmer in here. Do you notice?"

Shaking his head, Tintin waited, confused. The anticipation was unbearable. Would they die now? Why weren't they dead already? There could only be one explanation: Rastapopoulos was really faking, this was his own sick, twisted, way of torturing them: promising imminent death, and not delivering.

But now it was actually getting warmer. Tintin realized he had been breathing faster, more heavily for a while now, as though trying to get more of the gas – yes, that gas was still there. He was getting used to the smell; and curiously, he felt more fidgety every minute. What was this strange sensation? The heat in this room, where did it come from? Why did the brick wall still feel cool to his touch?

And then he realized. The room wasn't warm – that's why the wall felt cold. _He_ was warm. The blood was rushing through his body faster than usual, spreading heat through his brain, his stomach, his extremities.

And before he knew it, his most sensitive area was registering a well-known tingling sensation, starting in his abdomen. Great snakes, what the-? He felt his face heating up.

There was absolutely no reason for this to occur! He shifted around awkwardly in his sitting position, feet on the ground, drawing his knees closer together to hide his state.

What was happening to him? Oh God, the heat, the heat. Why was he getting that erection, now of all times? Fanning himself with one hand, he risked a glance at the Captain.

Haddock was still in the same place as before, but he had shifted to the side a bit, and appeared unusually fidgety. He did not look at Tintin.

Damn it! Tintin, focus! Think straight! It's clearly something... how was it called? Aphro-something? Some kind of drug that increased arousal, but how in hell did that work? He had never believed that there could be such a thing that was actually effective. Human arousal, both male and female, was a complex biochemical process that mostly occured in the brain...

… in the brain... Focus, damnit. He had to focus. Dizzy, he tried to think of something that always worked to kill his erection.

Most likely there was still a way out of this. There always was.

„Captain!" He knelt on the floor, leaning forward a little and placing his hands in front of his lap, so the bulge in his plus fours wouldn't be evident. „Captain, listen. We'll divide up the work. You check out the wall on your side... every single brick. If we can find a gap or a loose brick, we could push through it. If we make a hole..."

Haddock finally looked at Tintin, and through the dizzy haze of his mind the boy reporter finally noticed that his friend was in exactly the same condition as he was. Haddock was sitting awkwardly, but did not fully manage to hide the state he was in. His hands were closed to fists, knuckles white, and there was a sheen of perspiration on his nose and forehead. He did not speak for a while, appearing hot and bothered, but then finally said, „Don't talk to me now, lad... I'm not feeling well."

„Captain, I know...! I know! But... we must find a way out-!"

„Stay away from me!"

Tintin, too, was getting increasingly aroused and bothered. He wanted to get up, to give in to the urge that was constantly getting stronger – he wanted, no, he _needed_ to touch himself. These damn pants. They were rubbing against him, menacingly, enjoying to tease him. His efforts to out-think his erection were not working, and soon he was putting more effort into trying not to squeeze and rub himself.

Oh, crumbs! It was the worst. And the Captain was there! Right there! Common sense and Catholic boy scout education demanded that he keep his composure and suppress indecent thoughts. But right now, common sense was very quiet. In fact, the whole room had gone quiet. His own heartbeat, on the other hand, sounded louder than before.

Fighting the urge to touch himself, he stood up, facing the wall, wedging his hands in his armpits so they wouldn't trail where his body needed them most. Leaning his forehead onto the cool brick wall, he heaved a few breaths.

The effect of the cold brick against Tintin's skin was merely a drop of water on hot stone. Never in his entire life had he been this aroused before, and it was becoming unbearable.

He dared not turn around – his erection was all too visible against the fabric of this pants which kept creating maddening stimulation. He'd have to stay still and not move in order to prevent the friction, but his entire body felt so tingly, so hot, wanting to move. Unable to contain a low moan, he pressed himself closer to the wall.

Oh, confound it. They were going to get this over with! Even if Rastapopoulos was watching!

„Captain." Tintin turned around. „... we both know what's happening. Let's give each other some privacy."

.

.

.

Captain Haddock could feel the sweat running down from his hair. He kept trying to remind himself why focusing his arousal on that young man in front of him was so wrong, so abnormal, but he knew it wouldn't help right now. He had always found Tintin attractive, but heaven be damned if he ever acted upon his desires towards someone so pure, so young and innocent. Even if Tintin wasn't a minor anymore._ I'd rather swear off whisky! _

He was not sure how much time had passed – maybe half an hour, maybe one. And he was getting increasingly aroused. This was a truly awful situation. This damn gas was an aphrodisiac – there was no other explanation for this impossible situation.

Oh, Tintin! He looked at the lad again. Just one look, it was all right. No harm in one glimpse! Before Haddock knew what he was doing, he felt the tips of his fingers grazing the inside of his thighs. Thundering typhoons!

Stop it, Archie! You know how it is! It's like whisky! You're always telling yourself 'just one sip'... but you don't stop there. Don't lie to yourself!

Just one look.

Haddock was burning. One quick look became one long gaze, taking in everything.

If the gas was really an aphrodisiac, wouldn't it have the same effect on Tintin? Surely it must have, right? That pipsqueak tuft of a ginger might be a goddamn saint, but he was human, wasn't he? Full of raging hormones like every other young man...

The idea was almost too much to bear.

Tintin was standing now, facing the brick wall, leaning against it, and Haddock could not help but notice the slender figure of the boy, the slight hint of the curve of his rib cage through the sweat-stained shirt, the roundness of his buttocks in those high-waisted pants...

He realized he was breathing heavily, leaning towards, as though drawn towards Tintin by an irresistible force. No, it was not like whisky. It was worse than whisky! No amount of a sailor's vocabulary could express this horror!

But, oh, that roundness. The contour of Tintin's butt... firm and delicate.

Archibald Haddock, stop staring! The voice of his conscience was still faintly present in his mind. Blistering barnacles! If he only had some privacy... he would take care of his present state right now. No, he corrected himself, he could not wait for privacy. The urge was getting stronger. What to do?

With all the effort of a dehydrated alcoholic hiking through the Arabian desert, he managed to avert his eyes and restlessly got up, hugging himself, trying to put his hands anywhere but below the belt. His legs felt unsteady, and before he knew it, he was staring at Tintin again.

Because Tintin faced the wall and didn't see him, Haddock's gaze stayed where it was. If only the boy would turn around so Haddock would see if Tintin was similarly affected by this strange substance. Then he changed his mind. No! This must not happen! He must not even think of such a thing...!

Don't fool yourself, Archie, you're already delirious!

Indeed, almost all his blood had long departed from his brain and had traveled below his belt. He wasn't sure when he'd last had an erection this big. Then his incredulous gaze followed Tintin as he slowly moved against the wall, rocking his hips just the slightest bit, and through the foggy mess that his mind now was, Haddock thought to have heard something like a moan from the lad.

It was too much to handle. He made a trembling step towards Tintin. The slight roundness of the young man's hips, his firm little ass, those slender curves were still moving, beckoning him.

Was he imagining things, or could he even smell Tintin? That must be the gas. The goddamned aphrodisiac gas was turning him into an animal.

No, it was definitely Tintin...! The scent of sweat, the musky odor of sexual arousal, mixed with just the faintest hint of the deodorant that Tintin always used... it was the lad's own scent, more detectable than ever.

No. NO!

In a desperate effort to restrain himself, Haddock dropped to his knees. It was precisely in this moment that Tintin turned around. „Captain", he said, his voice lower than usual, „... we both know what's happening. Let's give each other some privacy."

For several seconds, Haddock did not reply, simply staring at Tintin whose face showed the effect of the gas all too well. Flushed and moist with sweat, as though he had just run a mile, the boy appeared to be glowing, more beautiful than ever. And his aroused state was evident.

„Tintin... come here." Still kneeling on the floor, he reached out a shaking hand.

„No, we can't." Tintin's voice was a hoarse whisper. „This is wrong. We can't..." Despite his words, he lowered himself to the ground as well, kneeling right in front of Captain Haddock. Their hands touched, and at first Tintin recoiled as though hit by an electric shock, but then he leaned in closer. „Captain, I'm sorry...I'm so sorry. I can't bear it any longer."

The words were distant, faint; Tintin's presence was distracting from them – everything about the boy was distracting. For one torturous moment he found himself staring at Tintin's collarbone, at the front of Tintin's pants with the unmistakable bulge in them.

„No... I'm the one who should be sorry", he muttered, grabbing Tintin's wrist and throwing himself at him.

No more sense in suppressing the torturous desire. Losing control and pinning the young man down onto the cold floor, Haddock pressed his own body close to Tintin's, jutting his erection against Tintin's groin. His aching arousal was too great – it made his nerves tingle, demanding immediate release.

Pushing Tintin's legs apart with one thigh, he rubbed himself furiously against Tintin. The younger man's intoxicating scent, the sound of his moans and breaths, the heat of his body – it drove him crazy, and yet the release did not come yet.

Pausing to unzip his trousers with shaking hands, he saw Tintin do the same. And then it was Tintin who embraced the Captain, digging his nails into the blue sweater, arching his back towards the Captain. „More", he gasped into Haddock's ear.

Exposed like this, grinding against one another felt even more sharp, more intense. There was a part of the Captain shivering in shame, aware of what they were doing here, like bitches in heat, but the tormenting desire overwhelmed the remorse.

Tintin's sounds were somewhere between moans and cries, desperate for relief, and Haddock moved harder against him, both erections wedged tightly between them, nudging, rubbing, solid and hot.

„_Mon Dieu_" Tintin breathed, arching his back further toward Haddock. The boy's body was tense and burning with desire, grinding shamelessly against the Captain in a way that Haddock had never dared imagine; except in dreams he had no control over.

He felt Tintin's body tighten in orgasm, and there was sticky wetness everywhere between them. Still focused on his own arousal, he stopped for a moment to see Tintin's face, contorted with pleasure.

Seconds later he felt his own bottled-up tension erupt, spilling his seed over the stomach of dizzy, exhausted Tintin.

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.

.

Roberto Rastapopoulos was amused.

He sat in his comfortable leather armchair in front of four medium-sized TV screens and watched his prisoners give in to the effects of the aphrodisiac gas.

Indeed, it worked just like Dr Krollspell had predicted! Tintin and the Captain had gotten so excited that they were practically tearing each others' clothes off. He could not see details on the blurry monitor, and the sound was washed-out, but it was still good enough to understand clearly what was going on. And, most importantly, they were recognizable.

Rastapopoulos chuckled to himself. That expression on Tintin's face when he thought he was about to die – it had been priceless. He knew it would be more prudent to get rid of him forever, to ensure that Tintin would not meddle with his affairs anymore, but he couldn't. He'd be damned if he simply killed his favorite arch-enemy! That would be no fun! No, he wanted to humiliate the irritatingly holier-than-thou boy reporter and his brash companion, and this video would be the perfect tool. To whom should he mail it first? So many possibilities!

Dr Krollspell had preferred not to watch it but rather to clean up his laboratory equipment in the corner of the room. Rastapopoulos heard the clanking of glass and rustling of paper. „Krollspell", he shouted, „it's almost over! Come and watch! They're going at it like rabbits! I'm not gonna make an extra copy for you!"

More clanking of glass.

Krollspell walked over to the TV screens, looking embarassed. „Sir, I... I'm not so sure if..."

„It's marvellous, doctor! Absolutely fantastic! I had no idea such aphrodisiac effects were possible. You must make more of that gas!"

„Actually, sir-"

„No, no, no, I understand! Your pay will be increased. You'll get a holiday bonus too."

„I just wanted to say that, um... er..."

„Yes?" Rastapopoulos snapped. He hated it when people hesitated.

„I just had a little accident back there in the lab."

„What do you mean, accident?"

„There... um... might have been the slight chance of a gas leak..." Krollspell's breathing was labored, his voice low.

A gas leak?

Rastapopoulos understood even before the strange odor wafted to his nostrils. It smelled faintly sweet, strange and foreign, with a hint of liquorice.

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**- the end -**


End file.
